


Sleepless

by 1863



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Getting Together, M/M, Post Episode: s02e07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: There's more than one thing that can keep a man up at night.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 16
Kudos: 248





	Sleepless

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: 100 words of nightmares.

There’s a mouth on him, lips and tongue and a little teeth, moving slowly down his neck, then his chest and stomach, before stopping somewhere just below his navel. He’s vaguely aware of making some noise of protest but all he gets in reply is low, quiet laughter, warm breath tickling the skin down there. He’s never thought of it as a particularly sensitive spot before but just the idea of that mouth curving into a smile, of those eyes gone dark with amusement, of that curly hair messed up from him fisting it in both hands —

“Come _on_ , Mando,” he pants, whines, begs. “Don’t make me —”

He jerks awake so suddenly that for a second or two, Mayfeld has no idea where he is. This isn’t the chopfield, he thinks wildly, this isn’t his cell, and if one of the droids catches him slacking off then he’ll wind up in —

“Mayfeld.”

He whirls around to find Mando standing in the doorway, a large cup held in his hands. The ship, Mayfeld suddenly remembers, he’s back on Boba Fett’s ship and they’re all heading for Nevarro now. The thought should calm him down some but the way Mando’s still watching him just makes the edge of panic get even sharper. 

It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid. There’s no way Mando could know what he was dreaming about — there’s no way anyone could know. And it’s fine, he tells himself, almost angry about it, it’s all perfectly _fine_. Just a random reaction to seeing something he should never have gotten to see, something no living person has ever seen. Just the unfortunate result of something Mando was forced to do and will never, ever do again. It’s all totally, perfectly fine.

Slowly, Mando steps into the room and holds out the cup. 

“We’ll get to Nevarro soon,” he says. “You asked me to wake you before we got there.”

“Yeah,” Mayfeld replies, voice hoarse from sleep and probably something else, too. “Thanks.” 

He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the narrow bunk and taking the cup from Mando’s hands, careful not to touch him despite the fact that Mando’s still wearing his gloves. 

“It’s just water,” Mando says. Mayfeld nods. He’s not thirsty but decides to drink all of it, hoping it’ll ease the dryness of his throat. 

And still, Mando hovers nearby, watching as he tilts his head back and swallows and swallows and swallows. 

“You ok?” Mando asks, when he puts the cup down and wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. “I heard…” He trails off. “I thought I heard you talking in your sleep.”

Mayfeld freezes. “Uh, yeah,” he says, straightening his jacket, his shirt, busying his hands. Say something, he tells himself, say anything at all. He could talk his way out of almost anything; before the Bothan-Five job, he’d never even come close to getting caught. Faking some excuse now should be a piece of cake. 

But then Mando steps closer, and he kneels down by the edge of the bunk, and whatever dumb thing Mayfeld was about to say promptly goes up in smoke, just fizzles out to nothing like his brain’s been shot with a disruptor pistol.

“Mayfeld —”

“Nightmare,” he blurts out, and tries not to jerk away when Mando reaches out with one gloved hand. “Just a nightmare, that’s all. Couldn’t sleep.”

Mando goes still, hand still outstretched. 

“Thought you took care of that on Morak,” he says, and lowers his hand. 

Mayfeld shakes his head and laughs a little. He thinks of Mando’s face behind the helmet; imagines it frowning at him now as he keeps talking absolute nonsense. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, almost to himself, “a man can have more than one thing that keeps him up at night.”

There’s a long, long pause.

“Yes,” Mando says eventually. “I know.” 

He lifts one hand again and Mayfeld just stares it, the sight of it slowly crossing the distance between them not quite sinking in until it lands, very carefully, on his own upper thigh.

“Uh,” Mayfeld starts. But for all that his thoughts are racing faster than a TIE interceptor now, he can’t seem to come up with anything else to say. The silence stretches on until Mando looks away, and despite not being able to see Mando’s face at the moment, just the thought of it — of his eyes downcast in disappointment, maybe, or embarrassment, or even worse, shame — 

Mayfeld acts without thinking, grabbing Mando’s wrist to keep his hand in place. 

“Wait,” he says. “I mean — it’s — just — I’m —” He cuts himself off and rubs his forehead with his free hand. Dank farrik, he sounds like a babbling idiot. 

“Never known Migs Mayfeld to be lost for words before,” Mando says. He sounds half-amused, half-cautious, but he makes no attempt to move his hand from Mayfeld’s leg. And surely, Mayfeld thinks, surely, that’s gotta count for something. 

He lets go of Mando’s wrist and reaches up, fingers stopping just shy of Mando’s helmet.

“First time for everything,” he says. 

He lets his hand drop, but Mando catches it before it falls too far, settling it down on top of his own wrist again, against the hand still lying warm and heavy on Mayfeld's thigh.

“Yeah,” Mando agrees. “First time for a lot of things.”

Mayfeld stares at their hands.

“Listen, Mando —”

“Mando, Mayfeld.” Marshal Dune’s voice streams in through the ship’s comm. “We’re here. Fett will start the landing sequence in a few minutes.”

Immediately, Mando stands up. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The kid, I have to —”

“No, no, I get it.” Mayfeld waves him off. “Do what you have to do.” 

He doesn’t expect it when Mando grabs him by the arm and pulls him upright. Mando’s strong, really strong, and the momentum makes him stumble until they end up pressed right against each other, Mando’s armour unexpectedly warm against his chest and stomach and thighs. 

“I always do,” Mando replies. 

“Let me guess.” Mayfeld glances up, into the visor, into what he now knows are absurdly pretty brown eyes. “This is the Way?”

Mando just nods. It doesn’t take much effort at all to imagine that there might be a smile on his face. 

“This is the Way.”


End file.
